Demons
by Nexia
Summary: A follow-up to The Hunting. The stage is set for the End, and Crawford finds he is being followed so his gifts may be harvested. But he has a few tricks up his sleeve.
1. Stolen Weapons and Stolen Minds

Demons – Chapter One: Stolen Weapons and Stolen Minds

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Schwarz, and I don't own America. And I'm glad that I don't own America's Most Wanted. I own everything else though since it's based in a made up city with a bunch of made up people who aren't even going to be there forever. And I actually built the house, thank you. In my head. Spiffy Co. synthesized, Spiffy Co. imagined. I own Spiffy Co. I am Spiffy Co. So stick that up your nose. And I have a patent pending for Schu-crack. It's not illegal neither. It's Spiffy Co. orientated as well.

* * *

The battle was ruthless. A dozen men maybe. All armed. Crawford fought them all though. His own power. His strength alone. And somewhere, where all was dark, a woman smiled.

* * *

It was another few days of solitude for Brad Crawford as he thought things through, trying to make sense of events. The attack of the night before had been only one of several since he arrived in America. Another one of his nightly hunts interrupted. He really hated it when things like that happened to him. After all, he was a very scheduled man.

Schwarz was of no help, all of them weak in their own ways. All of them still yet adjusting to the move, to the new and foreign surroundings. _Like animals,_ he thought scornfully, a hint of amusement at the edge of his mouth. _They're just like animals. They can't even exist without a proper master._

Crawford tapped his pencil absently on his pile of books. Even if he had the help of Schwarz, he very much doubted that he would be less worried and agitated. He tapped his pencil harder. And Schuldich would only get in the way. Just like he had last time, when they were in Japan. _At least,_ Crawford reflected, unable to turn off the voice of his mind, _this time I have the telepath properly distracted._

Yes, it was true. Schuldich was already working at peeling off the layers of reason the men of the Senate had – well, _had, at this point_. There wasn't much of it anyway. A nuclear war wasn't exactly what Crawford was looking for, but he was more than sure that he would get something very much like it. He hoped to get rid of the few southern countries he didn't particularly want to visit. Or perhaps whole continents. But it would be rather disappointing if absolutely _nothing_ was left in the end. What kind of fun would _that_ be?

Crawford tapped his pencil even harder as his thoughts headed back to the attack from the night before. The wooden writing utensil escaped his fingers and flew across the room, narrowly missing Nagi's new cat. The feline had been sleeping peacefully upon the computer monitor. He only noticed that when, in a fluster to leave the room, the fur-ball hissed at him angrily.

Crawford sighed and resigned to analyze the situation more determinedly. The assailants weren't dressed as if they'd come from any gang around this area. The men attacking him had faces like fighters used to combating an army at close hand. The faces were full of rage and the eyes were as mindless as those of zombies. They all fell too easy at Crawford's hand, in their senseless state. The only thing that really bothered him was that they were attacking _him_. And not to mention the way they fight...

Crawford stroked his chin. None of this could possibly make any sense at this point. He needed more evidence. He needed a drink. He needed food. He stood, grabbing his jacket, and left the new Schwarz mansion.

At first, he walked past the tree. Then, he doubled back to see Farfarello perched up on a limb, like a cat ready to strike. Crawford found his description of the Irishman amusing. He didn't have to ask what the younger Schwarz was up to. A churchbell tolled and the knifeman took of into the night. And so did Crawford, but in the opposite direction. Away from the house of God.

His hands were deep in his pockets as he strolled along the familiar streets. He'd grown up here. He'd been taken away from here. He'd been exploited elsewhere. And he committed his first murder in that Elsewhere. A real winter was creeping up on them. It was late October, and he was getting comfortable in his old home. Even though the worst of his life was not too far from here at all, he was what passed for happy in this place, in his mind.

He heard an sound and knew just what it was. A pack of wild people. Men, most likely. He would have guessed that they followed him, if they were not such a clumsy bunch. He heard voices grumbling, felt the eyes lock onto their prey – him. He only let out a long tired sigh. _When will people learn?_ And he took out his gun. He wasn't in the right mood for exercise tonight.

He didn't make just shots in the dark, he made winning shots in the dark. He rotated on his heel, only able to take out several before he ran out of bullets. He put the gun away and prepared himself to fight hand to weapon. It wasn't a fair fight, but he was sure that his attackers had life insurance, at least, before they became the mindless drones they were now.

They came at him, with pipes in hand, chains, throwing stars, sticks, twigs. Anything they could get their wretched hands on. A few charged him while the others watched, mad grins plastered on their faces. Crawford only had to step back for them to end up impaling one another with their sharpened tree limbs or lead poles. With a groan, they fell upon each other, and, bending at the waist and knees, they were still somewhat upright. Crawford swore he saw sensibility in their eyes for a moment. In the next, they were dead and gone from this world.

The others charged him, each ending up with a similar fate, a separate process. He watched each one lose miserably and result in death. He observed how they fought. They ran at him and flailed about madly, mindlessly, with a skill. He saw that they had no souls. He saw that their minds had been raped and stolen.

* * *

Crawford woke up in his office after that, from a blood coma. It was much like a food coma, but so much deeper. The warm salty metallic taste he hated so was just what he needed to feel better after a fight like that. He smiled in satisfaction of his full stomach, or wherever it was that the blood went. He stretched. The cat jumped down from his lap with a yowl. _Funny,_ he thought, _I like cats now that Weiss is good and gone._ He stared out the window at the new night, raw in its darkness and cold.

There was a knock at the door. Crawford wrinkled his brow. What was he supposed to say at this point. _Oh, yes, now I remember..._ "Come in," he said. No, it was more of a command. He commanded. The door opened behind him and then didn't close.

"It's all finished, Crawford." It was Schuldich, sounding resigned and lackluster.

"What is?" he asked. His mind was still overflowing with blood. _Mmmmm..._

"The Senate is falling over the edge that I put before them."

Crawford knew that metaphor. He couldn't remember at that point where he'd heard it from, but it involved putting an edge in front of someone, and knowing where it was so you yourself didn't fall in. The metaphor Schuldich used involved a trapping maneuver, spliced with going insane. Crawford had to think all these things through until his mind came back to him fully.

Schuldich had paused. "What now?" he asked.

Crawford swiveled in his chair to face the map on the wall. "Have the President bomb a few of those places." He pointed to the southern half of the map. "But not yet. I want to be able to stay here for awhile."

"Then... what should I do in the mean time?"

Crawford smiled to himself very faintly. Only he knew it, he was sure. He wondered faintly why Schuldich was succumbing to his orders with such little questioning. Perhaps he learned his lesson the last time. "Suicides. Maybe a few school shootings." He turned and stood. "Another good idea is perhaps to show people their desires, and then force them to indulge on them until they die from exhaustion or otherwise. But," he paused, "let's not rush things." He smirked. "I might even consider making this the center of our chaos-ruled world."

"I thought... that we didn't want a kingdom."

Crawford thought again how funny it was to hear questions from a telepath. "And we don't. We want the end of humanity. Only those able to survive the demons of Hell may be fit to join us."

"Recruits," Schuldich guessed shortly. He, of course, had no other way of knowing. Not with Crawford's mind barriers at such a full force, having to do with his newly acquired powers.

"If you want to call them that."

Schuldich didn't leave. He leaned against the doorway and watched Crawford. "I'm bored," he said. "Isn't there anything else for me to do?"

"You could kill them yourself instead of manipulating them from afar. It'll dirty your hands though. And chance getting us caught."

"We can get out of jail easily."

Crawford crossed his arms. "We'll have to be forced to leave our cushy location and run for Europe. And hope you have enough power to keep people from recognizing us from America's Most Wanted." He crossed the room and went to the window. "I need to fid out something before we can leave anyways." He looked back at Schuldich. "Have you been attacked recently? On the streets or anything?"

"Attacked, no. But followed, yes." There was an interlude of silence. Crawford thought he heard the gears of Schuldich's head moving, squeaking with the past's immobility. "I'm guessing you were attacked?"

Crawford nodded. "Keep your eyes out. I don't want to leave yet. I don't want to be forced out of my own country."

Schuldich agreed resolutely with an absent bobbing of his head. Up and down up and down. Then he left, not bothering to close the door behind him, leaving Crawford alone to contemplate at the window. And contemplate he did, practically throwing thoughts at the glass.

It was some moments later, when Crawford caught himself thinking too hard about nothing. A tree moved unnaturally, and outside the door, Schuldich snickered. "Get out of my head," Crawford commanded. His Voice boomed with the compelling power of a vampire, of the Gaki. _I can't possibly be the Gaki. I'm not Japanese._

"No, but most of those are dead. No more Japanese vampires. You were only bitten by one." The voice in his head caught him off guard, as did Schuldich's tree games. It was not his own mind voice.

"Schuldich!" he reprimanded toward the door. His Voice carried once again throughout the many halls of the mansion. Though a part of him knew that it wasn't the soda-pop-orange-haired telepath.

"What?" The German stepped back into the room, an explosion in his mouth, at the tip of his tongue.

"That just now... was not you, was it?"

"What just now? The tree?"

"No, nevermind. You may leave." He kept his eyes intent on the world beyond the window. Still night. It will be for some time now. He better get out while he can.

Schuldich paused before he left again. "I'm worried, Crawford. About this. We all seem a little too content living here." His mind voice entered in Crawford's thoughts.

"We can own and keep a variety of weapons here, legally." He was speaking to nothing. Schuldich was gone. With nothing else to occupy him, Crawford opened the window. It was a good night to begin making negotiations.

* * *

The man cowered against the wall, shaking. "What do... What do you want?" His round, rimless glasses shook off from his nose. They fell to the floor and broke. Crawford stepped on the glass shards.

He waved his gun casually, in a wishy-washy manner, the manner of a man who wasn't entirely sure of what he wanted. He was having too much fun. Especially when he was pretty sure the man already pissed himself, he was so scared. "Well..." he mused, tilting his head to the side, his eyes rolling upwards. "I'm not sure. What do you have?"

"We have some... nice firearms... over there. They're... very accurate and powerful... A guy like you should... should be able to handle the kickback... right?" He stepped to the side to run. He was shaking and knocked down a rack of newly made gun barrels. He almost went down with them, but Crawford had grabbed the man by the shirt with his one free hand.

"You're not going to _leave_ your customer to fend for himself, are you?" The voice purred into the old man's ear as Crawford lifted he shopkeeper off the ground. "I need something better than firearms. Something whose bullets can't be tracked. How about a... sword?"

The old man lifted a hand weakly, amidst sobbing, and pointed to the far corner. "My... best ones... They're... over there." He yelped out when he was dropped to the floor abruptly.

Crawford didn't walk away. "Alright," he said. "I've had my fun. I _suppose_ I could let you go." He watched as hope restored itself in the man's eyes, and he felt the smug feeling of a white lie doing so much damage. "I'll end your suffering. Isn't that the greatest escape there is? Ultimate? No one and nothing can follow you there." His smile widened into a malicious grin when he shot the man. No use in using the blood. Crawford had no need for the blood of cowards. He was still full anyhow.

He crossed the room and went to the security office just to make sure everything he had killed was good and dead. He reached over the guards' heads with a gloved hand and pulled the security tape from the VCR. A little entertainment for Farfarello.

When he was back in the main room of the shop, he heard sirens, but knew that they weren't for him. He mused at how ironic it was that they were called sirens when the Sirens themselves lured sailors. He laughed aloud imagining a fat doughnut-bellied cop trying to lure criminals with his sirens. The sirens weren't for him anyways, he reminded himself. The future could tell you things like that. You just had to know where to look.

He walked to the rack of choice swords and picked out his favorite. It was a black bladed beauty. He grinned a little, nostalgia nipping at him. The sword was a samurai's katana. How Crawford wished that he could have fought Ran with this little piece spawned of something from Heaven and Hell. A demon sword, godly created.

He swished it through the air a few times. He was _born_ with a feel for this sword, he decided. He chose a carefully crafted sheath for it, put it away at is side, and left the scene. As he left, he figured it humorous to see a well-suited man walking around in the middle of the night with a samurai sword at his side. He chuckled a little bit. Now that Weiss was gone, he developed somewhat of a humor.

As he knew it, the cops were not there for cries of help uncalled. They were not there for Crawford, no. They were in the middle of busting a high-powered crack house, the owner of it having sold something kids called Schu-crack. _My neighborhood,_ the vampire thought as walked away, dragging his feet a bit. He was tired though morning wasn't mounting.

There was no attack that night, despite Crawford's creeping tension that he was being followed. He didn't want to lead whoever it was to his house. He was already pretty sure that they knew the way, but no chances could be taken, ever. Not on a night of one of his crime sessions – he didn't necessarily want to call it a spree. Not when he had his new sword...

He checked into a hotel. And he slept until seven the next evening, when it was just beginning to get dark.

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

(A/N: I want reviews. Please, be kind and give me reviews.)


	2. Smiling Woman

Demon – Chapter Two: Smiling Woman

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Disclaimer: I don't own Schwarz, and I don't own America. I don't own Disney, and I hope they'll realize I don't own Sleeping Beauty either and that they'll forgive me for having Crawford forget the name of it. I own everything else though since it's based in a made up city with a bunch of made up people who aren't even going to be there forever. And I actually built the house, thank you. In my head. Spiffy Co. synthesized, Spiffy Co. imagined. I own Spiffy Co. I am Spiffy Co. So stick that up your nose. Yeah. XP

* * *

Crawford was in his room reading when he realized that he had not fed for the past day or so, and he got up from his couch and got ready to go out. Tonight, he decided to try something new. He hopped in the car and drove to a nightclub.

The environment ended up bothering him. He was bored, and his head was hurting. He chose two females who seemed to be quite taken by him, and he sucked them dry out back. He was still very much in the mood for more activities, though he had gotten his fill.

He walked through the night, and sensed his stalkers in the shadows.

* * *

He sighed. He was surrounded, and this was getting old. Fast. A sea of living zombies pulled at him, trying to test his limbs. They wanted to see how easily they would come off. No, he realized something. They were trying to hold him down. Faintly, he wondered why. That was when the future hit him. He saw what his present was when he opened his eyes. The vision had knocked him out for but a few seconds.

A young woman was walking toward him, holding a syringe in her hand. "I thought that you wouldn't make this so easy," she said with her deep-throated voice, sophisticated, and mocking.

He tilted his head. "What?" he asked. He wished that people would learn to give a person a break when they'd just woken up and when they're surrounded by a sea of men who are trying to kill him. A zombie attempted to eat his arm. "Hey!" His Voice knocked the man to the ground. He was swarmed in that moment; engulfed and swallowed in the sea. And all the while, the woman smiled. He fought. He kicked. He threw.

In the back of his mind, he remembered a scene from that Sleeping Chick cartoon movie. The part where the prince was attacked, and the wicked lady laughed while she watched. And then, as he bashed in the head of a middle-aged accountant, he wondered if the villain laughed at that point? Or did she just smile? Like this woman? Amid thoughts, he fought. He finally pulled out his sword and decapitated a male hair stylist.

By the time the mindless, living, not-quite-zombie men were all either dead or knocked out, Crawford was able to face the woman who stood before him. She was grinning madly, holding her syringe. "Are you their master?" he asked. He stood calmly and straightened his suit. He liked what he was. Not a breath wasted in all the fighting. Except those of whom were dead now.

The young woman stepped forward. "You can put two and one together to get four, can't you?" She transferred the needle to her other hand thoughtfully. "I'm just like you, Crawford, only a bit better, but a bit worse." She stepped forward again, out of the shadows. She was a teenager and nothing more, he saw. "But I must admit that it surprised me that you would come here, to this country. You seemed pretty cozy in Japan. How is it here? Are you cozy yet, Crawford?"

"How long have you been tracking me?" He crossed his arms and lowered his head so that his eyes may challenge hers as if he were a wolf.

"How long do you want to imagine?" She circled him. "I work for some people, Crawford. We only need a bit of your DNA. Some blood, perhaps, will work." She spoke as if he were a normal patient in a normal hospital. He wasn't a normal patient, though, and they were no where near a hospital.

"What do you mean, you're just like me?" He didn't feel like playing games. He wanted answers and, by God, he was going to get them. Whether or not he had to be able to not ask them in order. That was quite a thing to ask of a man who was very scheduled. Things must be in order for them.

"Do you want me to tell you what I am? Or do you just want to let me do what I came here to do so we can get this over with and put it behind us? Because, I'll tell you, Crawford, I have an eternity, and so do you. But my superiors, well, they don't." She stopped circling him and turned her head so that her back was angled to him and he could still be able to see her face. He didn't care to know, but he guessed that she was posing for herself. She was a walking, talking ego.

"What are you?" he demanded, his Voice ringing clear in the dead of the night, over the motionless bodies around him. Though, by then, he had figured it out. He only wanted to be sure, buy as much time as he could for... For what? No one would come to a nonexistent rescue.

"What a Voice." She smiled. "Alright. I suppose it's not too surprising that I'm a vampire as well as you. A spawn of the Gaki." She looked at him purposefully. "So. Now that I've answered your questions, will you oblige to me?"

He stood, sure on his ground. "No."

"No?" She pouted, and then said, very carefully, "I see." She paused, looking down. "Well. I suppose you'll go home and live your quite boring life. I could teach you how to be a proper Gaki. If you let me do this, I could–."

"Not finish... that sentence." A vision hit him, fanning the flames of his already growing headache. He held up a hand. An incredible prophetic wave from the River of Time flowed into his brain, pouring like a waterfall. The Future. The End. He didn't really know it at the time, but the pain and length of the vision had put him to sleep. He remembered her wicked smile as she realized things were going to go her way, and, in all generality, Crawford was sure that his was very much the same.

* * *

Crawford woke up and immediately set loose a long string of rather strong obscenities. Some of which were aimed at his aching head. Most were aimed at the fact that he was strapped down to a medical table. What a time to get a vision, he lamented with a wordless, thoughtless groan. A vision of the end of the world, no less. With a shudder, he realized that he couldn't remember exactly how or when. He also realized that he was foolish enough to fall asleep. If he could have, he probably would've gouged out his own eyes. No, because that would be foolish as well. _Well, damn it if I can't find a way to punish myself._

He also realized that he wasn't alone in the room that he couldn't see. Someone had taken his glasses, his suit jacket, and his tie. He tried to lift his head to attempt to see, despite not having his glasses. His head fell back against the metal of the table.

"He's awake, doctor," a man stated, with a bit of a nervous waver. Crawford wondered why. And then wondered if he had done anything in his sleep.

"Needle him," a familiar voice of a woman stated. "He's just fed. He's still strong. He'll break the straps."

With that, Crawford decided that he hadn't been sleeping for too long, and that the woman had been following him for quite some time. That was also when he noticed that they had taken his shirt as well. He really wished they hadn't. Didn't anyone understand how uncomfortable it was to be lying on a metal table, let alone being strapped to it?

_Wait,_ he thought, remembering the woman's words. _I can break the straps?_ He could hear the footsteps of the man with the needle coming nearer. He tested the straps. He could do it. And so, he did.

The man with the needle fell on his back and slid, and the syringe was sent skittering away. Far, far away. Crawford hopped down from the table and strided over to the young woman. The world moved so fast. He thrust a hand out, clutching her throat. "Where's my stuff?" he demanded. When she didn't answer, he closed his hand, and opened it again. "Tell me." Again, nothing. He pushed her back and slammed her head against a wall. He'd seen Farfarello do it once. It looked painful, and fun to do.

"Hey!" Crawford turned only his head for a moment. The only other person in the room, the man who had become known as the man with the needle, was up and behind Crawford, injection in hand, poised to strike.

"If you touch me," Crawford growled slowly, maniacally, "the girl loses her head." He didn't really care if she was a vampire or not. He didn't care that she was practically a child. He was very serious about his threat. If you screwed Crawford, you _will_ die, whether it was eventual or right away. You died. It was a fact of life – or, death, for that matter. If he was touched with that needle, the girl wouldn't have a head anymore. Common sense, people.

The man stopped his train of thoughts on its tracks. And dropped the needle. It was another moment before he turned to get help. Security, Crawford decided. He turned his attention back to the woman-girl.

"Now," he said slowly, "where's my jacket, my shirts, my glasses, and my sword? Where'd you put them?" She made a sound. He released her and threw her to the floor. "You want to tell me now? Huh?" He kicked her, and she sat there, taking it, barely moving, barely flinching. "I want my stuff. And I want it now. I want to leave this place. I want you to leave. Me. Alone!" His Voice growled and roared, vibrating the entire room, shaking the very spine of the building. Everyone could feel it, whether or not they heard it.

She stood and brushed off her jeans. "I don't really care what the hell you want, Brad Crawford. I still need something from you. And you aren't leaving until I get it from you. Do you understand?"

Crawford could see the heat in her eyes, and a craving in him rose. He wanted a fight. He wondered a little what would happen if two vampires fought. Would their strength go and retrogress in comparison to that of when they were humans, referring to each other? _What the hell,_ he thought. He might not get another chance to test it.

He hit her across the face with the back of his arm. Bloodied her nose. Broke it, in fact. She flew back down to the floor, hand clutching face, and he decided that she had been a particularly weak human. Strong only with her tongue. But even then, she had her major flaws. Covering her nose, tears of physical pain flowing out of her eyes, she pointed across the room. He could see that she had admitted defeat.

For a blinding, brief moment, he thought his reality stretched. The moisture from her eyes turned crimson, and she was a blue ice witch. It was a flash, and it was gone. He wondered if he'd imagined it, if he was going crazy, or if it was prophecy. Across the room, he blearily saw a black on white. A sword. His clothes.

He smirked from the corner of his mouth. "For that, demon, I'll let you live." He walked past her. Yes, he was still the King of Demons. He still considered himself as such.

The security team burst into the room at that moment. Guns cocked, they were preparing to take on Crawford. They apparently didn't know that he could and would crush them. The woman-girl stood, tears mixing with her blood on her face, on the front of her shirt, her jacket. "Stop," she commanded. It was the first time she used her Voice around Crawford. "What did I tell you? You can't hurt him with those." Her Voice was too controlled. It was weak. Like herself. It did not resemble power. She had none.

Crawford was already straightening his tie. "Here's a bit of advice for you, Vespertine." He considered her to be a lady of the evening. She was not yet ready for the deepness of the night. She was not ready for the Nox. He looked at her dead on. "Never come near me again. Or else I might take away your title of demon. Do _you_ understand? This means that I _will_ kill you."

She shook all over. Her shoulders trembled, her eyes shook, her hand was still at her nose. She winced in pain. He could have sworn she was human, but he knew the force he hit her with. A human would be dead. He was glad that he had instilled fear in her. But it wasn't until she spoke that he realized that he should've known it was otherwise. The Future failed to drip into his eyes. "You will give me what I need, Brad Crawford. Or I swear, I will hunt you forever."

It was funny that these words came from someone covering their face. Her words were muffled. He smiled wickedly. "Then you are not a demon, child." He spat out the last word, turned on his heel, and strided out of that place. He didn't even want any of the blood from there.

* * *

He stopped at a home, got a lonely mother to let him in. And only then, did he get his fill. Children had the sweetest blood.

* * *

Schuldich had been posted outside for guard. Why on the front doorstep, Crawford had no idea. No one tended to break into a house through the front door. But he was there. And he was either guarding, or waiting for Crawford. It looked like he was guarding. And it was going to look like that. "And where have _you_ been?" he greeted with crossed arms and a swivel of his hips and a suggestive grin.

"Is your mind always in the gutter?" Crawford remarked as he made his way up to the mansion from further down the long driveway where he left his car.

"Where is the mind of the world, Crawford? What is it that they all think collectively, instinctively? Answer that, and I guarantee you answer your own question." He leaned against a cement lion on the thick cement and brick railing of the stairs.

Crawford glared. "I _really_ don't want to hear any cryptic riddles right now."

Schuldich, at the least, pretended that he hadn't heard Crawford, and made a show of checking his watch. "It's almost morning, Braddy. Shouldn't you be getting some shut eye about now?"

Crawford sighed heavily. He was very, very tired. And he was getting hungry too. _Heck of a time..._ "I know what time it is," Crawford's Voice growled, and walked past the telepath. "And _never_ call me Braddy. _Again._" He went to his room and went to sleep on his couch. His bed was just not as soft as it used to be.

The End of the world bit at his heels.

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

(A/N: Mwahaha!! The suspense!!)


	3. For More Than a Name

Demons – Chapter Three: For More Than a Name

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Schwarz, and I don't own America. I own everything else though since it's based in a made up city with a bunch of made up people who aren't even going to be there forever. And I actually built the house, thank you. In my head. Spiffy Co. synthesized, Spiffy Co. imagined. I own Spiffy Co. I am Spiffy Co. So stick that up your nose. Yeah. XP

* * *

Crawford was sleeping at his computer again. The blue of the light spread over his shirt and his face. Schuldich watched him and wondered, in spite, what made the man so special. Why did he get to be kidnapped? Why was everyone making such a fuss over one man. Sure, he may be of the Gaki. Sure, he may be able to see the Future. But, honestly, what gave him the authority to be leader? What gave him the right to give orders to Schuldich, to Nagi, to Farfarello?

Schuldich wondered if it was Fate that made this so. But then he knew that it had to do with his impeccable ability to make plans so smoothly. It was too bad that the plans this time around kept Schuldich from having any fun at all. He knew it was to keep him busy and out of the way. But he knew that Crawford wasn't up to anything. At least not yet. He tried to reach...

With his new gifts, Crawford could block almost any mind probing Schuldich dished out. He could keep a barricade around, not only his thoughts, but himself. He was an untouchable man.

He slammed the blade end of the knife he'd been holding into the wood of the desk. It stood upright. Crawford did not wake.

* * *

At first, the knife surprised Crawford, but then, he knew.

* * *

The attacks weren't as frequent. In fact, they were no more. Those people seemed to have given up on him. At least that was what he was thinking until one night.

A long black trench coat fluttering in the wind, and the man looked up, as if conversing with the night. Crawford was going to walk past, pretend that he didn't think this man was another teenage loony. He'd had enough of teenagers. A hand stuck out in front of his face, stopping Crawford. The movement set off the river of Time. The movement was catalystic. It changed the Future, even in the slightest way. It was something only the best of seers could sense. That was Crawford.

"You don't belong here," was all Crawford said. Catalysts tended to be either psychics, or crazies. There was no way this man could be psychic.

"Neither do you." The man's voice was very deep. Deeper than Crawford's, and that was deep. The sound of the man's voice was the type that rumbled in your gut. "I was sent–."

"To kill me." Catalystic words escaped between Crawford's lips. He resolutely drew his sword, sighing. "Let' get it over with, now, shall we?" His reality skewed. The sky turned white and black birds flew away, scattering into the winds. It looked like an omen from Satan himself. Then it was night again.

"You don't want to know who I'm sent by," the man guessed. It was not a question. It was not a command or a grievance. His arm was still stuck out in front of Crawford's face. His sleeve pressed against his arm, held down by the wind. The man was looking at the sky, silently talking to the stars and clouds, floating against the black backdrop of eternity. In Crawford's mind, the birds turned into flaming butterflies, merrily going along, on fire. The insects screamed.

"You're going to tell me anyways." The Future was leaking again.

"I'm sent," the man said slowly, "From God."

"Oh, very original." Crawford rolled his eyes and played with his sword, slicing at falling leaves near him. "I suppose you're here to save my soul." But in that same moment, he knew he was wrong. You make a guess, set the wheels of Fate spinning.

"No. I'm here to get rid of your soul. Taking on Lucifer." He scoffed. "That is not a very prudent thought." He finally lowered his arm and looked at Crawford. "The Lord and the Fallen One have an agreement. If you take on Lucifer, you are challenging this agreement. You are challenging–."

"God," Crawford finished. "Right. Anyhow, if you're about done, would you let me kill you now?"

"If you can figure out how."

The movements, prelude to battle, were slow and respectful. It oddly reminded Crawford of an old fashioned courtship. Like in those silent movies. Those old mysteries. Someone was going to die in the end. Slow, deliberate circling. Wary gazes. Calculating. Predicting moves. It was a dance.

Crawford had no need to predict. He _knew_. This messenger. This... _Angel,_ he decided. This angel was no longer a catalyst. Crawford was. Weaving, looming, fabricating the Future to his whims. The world was prisoner of the future he laid before them. He _created_ Fate.

Crawford was first to make a move, slashing, stabbing with his sword. The sword could not penetrate the angel's body. Even his clothes remained undamaged. The angel moved fluidly in response. Punch, punch, kick. And Crawford dodged them. Then he dropped his sword and fought hand to hand as well. There was no effect. The angel struck again, and missed. Considering he was an angel of God, he didn't seem to know that he would never land a hit. Still they fought, angel against a psychic vampire. It sounded crazy, even to Crawford.

How do you kill an angel? How do you defeat an opponent who will never tire, never get hurt? Can you? Is there a way? Crawford remembered something, and wondered if God was actually on his side after all. If it was time for things of all things to end, for the world to give up and crumble, for new agreements. His psychotic episodes were lodged in his memory. He wasn't sure if they had been real, if they meant something, but he was going to try. What had he to lose?

Blood had pored from her eyes when she cried. He wondered, then, if it was the woman-girl's doing. After all, she didn't want him to die until she got her something from him. Aside from that, from his thoughts, what he had to do was to make the angel bleed from his eyes. _Gouge them,_ he told himself. _You want the blood._

With a growl, he threw himself onto the angel and wrestled him to the ground. With a smirk, he picked up his sword and held it above his head. Was that fear he saw? Just before he brought the point of the blade down onto, into the right eye. The angel screamed. A horrible wail, sounding of a million voices, sirens, birds. Deep and high at the same time. It shook you. It made you want to fly, but you were falling like a bowling ball.

The left eye was left. And then it was gone. Crawford got them both, and the scream then, was silent. The angel was dead. So much for immortality.

At first, Crawford wondered if he would be struck down by lightning from the heavens. He stood straight to challenge the clouds. He would like to see God try. He came to a realization. _So God is real..._ he mused. Then he wondered if the angel had a soul and where it went now that it was dead. Then he wondered what the blood of an angel tasted like.

He _was_ awfully hungry.

It was divine.

* * *

The woman girl made herself known once again the next night. This meant that she had the pleasure of catching Crawford in one of his moments in which he was already pissed. When did anyone not? Why couldn't the world leave him alone and in peace. He was home, and, by god, he was going to get blood while he was there. As if that was so casual as that.

When she approached him, in the middle of the night, near his own home, he felt hospitable enough to greet her with his sword to her throat. He just wanted to talk, after all. When she flinched, he took notice of her nose which had already healed. "I thought I broke that," he remarked.

"Oh please. Vampires tend to heal rather quickly. Put that thing away before you pop an eye out. I don't suppose you can grow a new eye." He saw that she was trembling, despite her words. She crossed her arms in a vain attempt to hide that fact.

"I suppose I wouldn't know," he said. "I've never been hurt." And that was completely true, too. "Have you come to take me away? To try to steal my blood again?"

The woman girl sighed "Look, Crawford, you don't seem to understand. I was asked to come here and explain it to you in the hopes that you would submit and cooperate."

He almost laughed. "Me. Cooperate. Since when?"

"That's just what I said, you know. But of course, superiors don't tend to listen when they know that they are wrong. They sometimes try to overestimate me."

"And anyways," he prompted. He had the right to be curious. She said nothing, only stepped back and away from the drawn sword. She began to walk away and she beckoned him to follow.

They went for coffee and tea.

* * *

"There is this prophecy. Not many know about it. Mostly killers and government people. Maybe even less. Well, it says that a creature of the Night, with prophetic Sight and silent Voice, will descend upon the world and the End shall commence in its wake." She took a long, shuddering breath. "Look, I need your powers." Her hands were clasped around her mug of tea. She looked around, nervous. She made it perfectly clear that she didn't particularly like or want to be sitting there. She seemed polite enough to not have said anything, but she probably could've been a little more tactful when it came to body language. She was ashamed of having to drink tea, of all drinks in front of the man she was supposed to have killed. Crawford guessed this much.

He sat, fingers pented, his body leaning back in the chair. He was swimming in his mind, diving for prospect. He was vaguely aware of his body. He could have fallen to the floor, and would've still been lost completely in thought. "You believe that you are this creature, Vespertine?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean... Why do you call me that?"

He didn't answer. His mind was working even harder now. "Hmm..." he said. And then he stood. "I don't really think I wasn't to help you, Vespertine." He paused. "And you owe me one for that little snatch and grab. I trust you can pay the bill."

"Crawford, sit," she commanded.

"I'm not a dog. How can you expect the master to heed the pet?"

"We must come to an agreement," she insisted, avoiding having to look at him. He couldn't deny it, but it looked very funny. To watch her try to establish a sort of commanding position over him when looking at her hands.

"No," he said, waving away a waiter who was thinking that something was wrong with their drinks, or something or other that a waiter should be concerned about. "We're fine," he said to the uniformed teenage boy. "I was just leaving." Spin the wheels for the Future.

"Brad Crawford," she growled, using her Voice. He had been wondering how long it would take her.

He sighed and sat, just to humor her. "Or not..." he muttered. The waiter finally went away.

"_Look,_" she said, "I don't know why you think you're so hot(1), but you aren't okay?(2) The deal is that you even have the full powers of a vampire, while I do. I deserve this more than you."

"You're acting as if it's some sort of promotional position. We don't work together. Nor will we ever. But go ahead and tell me about these powers I don't seem to have." He leaned back once again and pented his fingers. Truly curious. That was what it meant to sit this way.

"Typically," she sighed, "vampires can read minds. They have a telepathic ability."

Crawford scoffed. "I have one of those at home. Crazy as a bunny on crack, as he may be, but he's still useful." He laughed to himself and stood. "And you think you can buy me with a line like that? I've been a psychic for longer than I can remember. You can't tempt me with a power like that. I don't want to know what the rest of the world is thinking. It's sick." And he walked out. From the window, he could see her sink down into her seat.

She couldn't catch him. She had gotten lucky that last time. An now she can't even reason with him. He smiled at her. She was weak and clueless. She would be dead in a week if she took his power. Oh, and his Sight too.

He walked around until 6 in the morning. He had to admit that Schuldich was right. It was getting pretty boring around here. There was no plan, and hence, nothing to do. But what was up with that angel? An _angel_? _I don't suppose you can get stranger than that._ And what made it worse, more unbelievable was that he sucked its blood. _His blood,_ he corrected himself.

When he got back to the house, he considered having Schuldich check his mind out. See if he might be going crazy. But when he stepped into the mansion, everyone was still asleep. He had to wait until that night to find out if he was insane.

* * *

He wasn't.

"I'm not sure what the hell you're so askeered of. You killed that..." Schuldich sniggered a little, "...angel, did you say? Because of your," he used a set of air quotes here, "psychotic episodes, right?" He was circling the chair in which Crawford sat. "There's nothing wrong with your brain. Maybe you should get your eyes and ears checked."

"I don't think that's it, Schuldich." Crawford sat back and massaged his temples. "I'm either going insane, or the world is ending. I mean... an angel? I killed a fucking angel. And then I drank its blood... I can still..." he held back the urge to lick his lips, "...taste it." He had to admit. He wanted more. "His blood," he corrected himself again.

"Oh, quit your whining." Schuldich crossed the room and leaned his hip against the doorway. Imitating a woman's voice in the best way he could manage, he mimicked, "Oh, no, the sky is falling. Someone save me. I think I'm a fucking loony."

"You know, you should be British," Crawford said, getting up. Time to sleep.

* * *

To Be Continued . . .

* * *

A/N 1: Because, ummmmmmmm, he IS...

2: Actually, chick, he IS. You know, I just realized I don't know her name.

You know... I'm really surprised. This is moving a little too fast for my comfort. I can't slow it though. It's just flowing. ... And not to mention going insane.


End file.
